


A Land of Opportunity

by BitchHips



Series: Hellsing Ultimate Abridged x Vento Aureo Omnibus [2]
Category: Hellsing Ultimate Abridged, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Blood Bond, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Ciel Phantomhive Being an Asshole, Cunnilingus, Demon Sebastian Michaelis, Dhampir Giorno Giovanna, F/M, Fem OC - Freeform, Flirty Guido Mista, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Human/Vampire Relationship, Hypersexual Disorder, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5: Vento Aureo, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Trigger Warning - guns, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Bites, Vampire Sex, kinda pre-canon, vampire shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29033682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitchHips/pseuds/BitchHips
Summary: Bucciarati's gang travel to the US, away from the limitations of proper mafioso behavior, for a job that tangentially involves a sarcastic vampire and a prick of a demon butler. Away from the expectations of their community, Bucciarati and Abbacchio come together.Based on the premise - what would the Alucard from Hellsing Ultimate Abridged make of Stand Users?If you are unfamiliar with this abridged series by Team Four Star on YouTube- it is tops.Black Butler characters make appearances - but only because it was easier than creating more OCs.Thanks to generous beta readers such as the talented MercyEscribe.Thanks for reading. This is my attempt at following the advice of Dr. Pennebaker’s book Writing to Heal: A Guided Journal for Recovering from Trauma & Emotional Upheaval.Read the tags. If this is uncomfortable for you to read, please stop. Take care of yourself! I am trying to process my sexual trauma by exploring my sexual identity and fantasy world. I don’t want to hurt you in an effort to heal myself. I am trying to find my tribe so we can heal together, overcome and thrive.
Relationships: Alucard/Original Character(s), Guido Mista/Original Character(s), Leone Abbacchio/Bruno Buccellati
Series: Hellsing Ultimate Abridged x Vento Aureo Omnibus [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782505
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. The Job

**Author's Note:**

> But Abbacchio. He was literally everything. That man was an intriguing mix of the masculine and feminine; bisexual, non-binary in every way, he utterly bewitched Bruno. After all, although Bruno was discreet about his romances, he would never outright hide his feminine side; in fact he flaunted it. It was a dare that he could answer with deadly force should someone mistake it for weakness.
> 
> (Yes, that is a Rohan cameo in Italy.)

THE JOB

  
It was the eyes. Always the eyes. Bruno Bucciarati was a man who trusted his gut; in the heat of a fight or social interactions, it served him very well. To size a person up he always looked first to their eyes. It didn’t matter if they were a 125 kilo wall of muscle or a thin, crouching husk of humanity – the eyes told him all he really needed to know.

He saw in the eyes of two of his men in the headlines of the newspaper, that they would make good additions to the team he was trying to build. In Guido Mista he saw sureness; in Leone Abbacchio he saw fidelity; and both had a look that said they had been betrayed by the world. He gave them a new place in this fucked up world that they could believe in, and he saw that sureness and fidelity thrive.

It had been the same when he first came face to face with Fugo and Narancia – wit and sincerity. And it didn’t take the cultivated perception of Bruno Bucciarati to see the resolve on Giorno Giovanna’s face. They all were damaged – and queer. He used their outcast status to reinforce the bonds of loyalty he was trying to forge. Shrewdly, he saw potential that he knew he could nurture and bend into clever and capable made men.

  
…

  
When Bucciarati was summoned by his boss, Polpo, for this job, he was given pictures of his payload. An English organization was specifically looking for stand users with bodyguard experience to collect an American woman and keep her under their protection until the English organization came to set up a secure transfer. She was a bit older than he, fit, with long dark hair and a smirk. The eyes were almost as dark as Mista’s and they said “openness”.

This was very unusual for Passione, but The Boss of Passione was ambitious; looking to expand his influence. This English organization was outside their government - but it enjoyed some degree of protection from the Queen, which meant owed favors might prove to be very useful. There was a lot riding on this job, and Bucciarati knew it. He was expected to give frequent updates that The Boss himself would see. This was a great opportunity that could not be ignored; not that he could decline Polpo’s orders anyway. Polpo gave him 6 one way tickets, which implied a level of danger that wasn’t evident in the job description, but not unexpected for a mafia job. Tickets for the survivors would be procured once the job was done.

They were to fly to Texas immediately to collect her; secure a safe location to wait it out and be ready to transfer. It may take a day or a month. In the suburbs of Houston, Texas. In America.

The only person within their group who had traveled outside of Italy had been Fugo and Giorno. When Bruno got back to Libeccio they got to planning. Fugo and Abbacchio were to do research on multiple, potential safe houses in Texas. Mista and Giorno were to secure fake passports. Narancia was sent to the airport to meet with (bribe) Passione contacts to facilitate the gang moving through airport security with guns and other contraband not tucked away in zippered pocket dimensions or transformed bouquets of flowers.

  
Bucciarati looked through the rest of her file to fuel further research about her job, her family and habits. By nightfall all was ready for their adventure abroad save one thing - a visit near the museum district to see a Passione operative who had bribed a smartly dressed civilian stand user to grant verbal fluency in English, within an instant.

The preening civvie stand user was coy and secretive. One by one they entered a private room with him, and without remembering much of what happened, they each exited with a strange smile on their face. They all babbled on the way home. Even normally reserved Giorno was chatting away with all of his comrades on the stroll home, switching from English to Italian and back again. Even the name of this city they have known all their lives sounded weird when they willed themselves to say it in English – “NAAAAAY-plz”. It sounded like someone was drawling out the word “nipples”. They laughed like children every time.

  
…

  
  
It was cramped on the international flight. They were flying coach and Bruno sat next to Abbacchio. It was his first time on a plane and the sounds and sensations brought to mind his time on his father’s boat, but different enough to cause unease. As gangsters used to occasionally having to do stake outs and the like, they were accustomed to sitting and waiting, but because there was so much on Bruno’s mind, his body was restless.

  
After the eyes, the second thing Bruno Bucciarati noticed about a person was their stance. How they held their shoulders, their chin, their hands - could tell him how they fought, how they fucked. All of these things that Bucciarati meticulously studied in every person he encountered, drew him in to the beauty sitting next to him. It was nothing he hadn’t already noticed. His men were objectively attractive; he knew that. He had used this to their advantage on jobs in the past, a tool in his arsenal.

  
He didn’t believe that he chose these people -only- because of their attractiveness, but with Leone Abbacchio, he wasn’t 100% sure. That photo in the newspaper beguiled him before he read the ‘Crooked Cop’ headline.

  
Polpo’s appetites were many – food, wine, money, and, although not widely known, men. He would call Bruno to the prison more times than were necessary just to give him gifts of tight-fitting clothes, cologne, shoes; Bruno was well aware of this power he held over his capo; he played coy and left the giant man on the opposite side of that glass, always wanting more. Bruno worried about what would happen once Polpo served his sentence and there was no glass separating them.

  
Polpo had to approve of all of Bruno’s choices for his team; with the first two, it was easy. Fugo and Narancia had the same slight build with big, hungry eyes that Bruno had when he had joined Polpo’s ranks.

Bruno would never forget when he took Mista to see Polpo. He waited outside patiently; when Mista reappeared from within the prison,, he winked at Bruno and stepped into the shadow of the prison walls. He snapped the lighter closed and within an instant, Bruno could see what Mista couldn’t - Black Sabbath loomed behind him. Bruno shouted a frantic warning, but Mista just grinned and puffed out his chest; the stand stabbed him instantly without a fight. It turned out that Polpo was so smitten with flirtatious Mista that he TOLD him the trick about the lighter and the arrow.

  
Abbacchio, however, was NOT like any of them. Polpo saw the defeat and defiance that flickered in his eyes. He didn’t offer the lighter to Abbacchio at their first meeting. It took one glance and Polpo dismissively told Abbacchio that he should look elsewhere for employment.  
With downcast eyes, Abbacchio explained what happened to Bruno outside the prison gate. He thanked him for the opportunity and said “maybe I’ll see you around”. Bruno stopped him. He insisted that Abbacchio wait a moment while he spoke again to Polpo.

  
“Boss, I need you to trust me. Give me the lighter for Abbacchio. A former cop could be very useful on my team.”  
“If you want a dirty cop on your team, there are plenty out there. This one is not a good fit.”  
“Please, Capo.”  
“Why are you being so stubborn, Bucciarati? This isn’t like you.”  
“I see potential.”  
“Fine. I have a hard time saying ‘no’ to you and you know it. What will you give me in return?” he licked his lips reflexively.

For the first time ever, Bruno zipped his way into Polpo’s cell. The smell. Stale body and greasy food. Bruno looks away and steadies his breath. He had been holding out thus far from touching Polpo. An ace in his hand that could be cashed in only once. The man was repugnant, but it seemed the only way. He came prepared for this eventuality every time he came to talk to Polpo.  
“Are you wearing the underclothes I bought you?”  
“Yes. Did you want to see, Capo?”  
“For starters.”  
Beady, pig eyes focused on Bruno as he carefully removed his loafers, socks and suit. He folded his suit and set it onto his shoes in the cleanest patch of the dull floor. He stood before Polpo wearing the white Armani briefs he gave him.  
“And don’t forget to take down your hair.”  
Bruno took a deep breath and removed his hair clips. He shook out his braid and smoothed his hair back as best he could to approximate a manly, slicked back style. Polpo whistled in approval.  
“Step closer.”  
At 4 meters away, Bruno could smell the man’s breath, Cheese and peppers. It was nauseating. The massive man smirked as he teasingly waved the lighter above his head, he beckoned Bruno with a squat finger on his other hammy hand.  
“Then come. Take the lighter from me, boy.”  
Padding slowly across the floor on his bare feet, Bruno made a plan. He’d step up and upon Polpo’s knee, then…. What else was there to grab onto? The shoulder? Fuck it. He’d figure it out.  
He squared his jaw and set his gaze on Polpo. The underwear felt too structured and bulky. Was that cop worth this? Too late to go back now.

  
One. More. Breath.

Go.

  
Bruno’s nearly naked form clambered up the mountain of flesh, points of contact sinking into the doughy flesh enrobed in slippery, stretchy fabric. It wasn’t just his breath that had that stale food smell – it was the man’s entire bulbous form. Polpo tried to wave his arm around to make Bruno cling to him, and somewhat succeeded. He rocked his body sideways, causing Bruno to brace his taut hip into Polpo’s cheek. Bruno lurched upward, and with his fingertips finally touched the lighter. Polpo released it and instead quickly grabbed both of Bruno’s hips and pressed them into his face.

  
He sloppily mouthed Bruno’s groin through the fabric for at least a full minute. Bruno fought the nausea as he sunk his elbows, hands and knees onto the fleshy head so he wouldn’t fall. Realizing the grip was not an expression of pleasure and an erection was not forthcoming, Polpo released his hold and Bruno slid down back to the floor. Burned by the realization that Bruno was allowing this due to compliance only, without a shadow of Bruno’s desire, Polpo pouted as Bruno removed the Armani briefs and threw them at Polpo’s feet. He then quickly dressed, then with a slight bow of thanks, left with the lighter.

  
………………

  
Not only was Abbacchio objectively attractive, with his proud, broad shoulders and his gemstone eyes, he was specifically alluring to Bruno Bucciarati. Bruno swore to himself when he started his gang that he would treat his subordinates with respect, to give them a space, where betrayal would not touch them – at least not by his hand. Considering what each of them had been through, and what they might be subjected to with Polpo, they deserved at least that. He trusted his belief in his own code so much that he never considered the possibility that he could be attracted to one of his underlings.

  
But he was, and this was problematic for Bruno. Like most Italians, his men were raised staunchly Catholic and homosexuality is seen as a sin; the mob was filled with toxic, posturing, damaged, wannabe-alpha males who derided homosexuality. He nominally hid his own queerness and his unspoken expectations were that his men would follow his lead, lest they draw scrutiny from other gangsters. Discrete encounters were fine; just keep it outside of business. No fellow mobsters, no people under his protection. Abbacchio was definitely the former, and more or less the latter.

  
But Abbacchio. He was literally everything. That man was an intriguing mix of the masculine and feminine; bisexual, non-binary in every way, he utterly bewitched Bruno. After all, although Bruno was discreet about his romances, he would never outright hide his feminine side; in fact he flaunted it. It was a dare that he could answer with deadly force should someone mistake it for weakness.

  
But Leone Abbacchio was an enigma. He remembered seeing him passionately kissing a woman outside a club after the team was celebrating the conclusion of a particularly difficult mission. He fucked her in the club’s restroom; Bruno remembered hearing her call out his name when he had walked by the door. He had also seen him openly, wantonly, flirting with a pair of men that same night. The couple pawed at Abbacchio hungrily, as he nibbled at the larger man’s sinewy neck and the blond man caught Abbacchio’s hips from behind and connected them into his. Bruno was sure Abbacchio went home with them that night. The next day he noted with curiosity that Abbacchio had added a large, metal A to his belt to his daily attire that he had worn it nearly every day since.

But, but, but. Bruno wanted to know more about the powerfully built, tall and well-muscled man. That voice. Those manicured hands with glossy black nails. That painted mouth. He was determined to keep himself contained for the duration of this flight, despite sharing the armrest, brushing thighs against each other, feeling warmth and power. The ever present, monogram A glinted in the dark cabin. Bruno sighed. Bruno was Abbacchio’s direct command and he would push such base desires away, and just find a way to sleep the hours away.

  
He did finally sleep. Bruno awoke with a start in the darkened cabin after what he felt was probably a couple of hours. Must have been turbulence. He caught movement to his side and looked to find ember eyes staring back at him, one hand clutching the other on his lap, as if he had just burned his hand.  
“I’m sorry, did you just say something? I was asleep.”  
“No, Bucciarati. Sorry,” stammered Abbacchio in his deep baritone, “but may I get by you? I need to use the restroom.”  
“Of course.”

Bucciarati stands up moves into the aisle to allow Abbacchio to pass him. He hurriedly moves down the aisle towards the restroom, nearly tripping over a leg flung into the aisle. Bruno took the opportunity to stretch and looks across the aisle and a row behind where Mista and Narancia were asleep. Clingy Narancia, headphones still on, curled up against Mista. He had been listening to all the American rap music he loved so much before – now even more obsessed now that he understood (most) of the words. Mista sprawled out, the one leg in the aisle that Abbacchio narrowly avoided. Behind those two, he could just make out the two mops of blond hair belonging to Fugo and Giorno. He smiled to himself; his young but capable team had done well so far. When he realized he was smiling, he bent over to touch his toes, satisfied that the trip was, thus far, uneventful.  
…


	2. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get the fuckboy to do it.”
> 
> Bruno stiffened. Each member had different assets they brought to the table and Mista’s talents had been useful in many past jobs. The disparaging remark was not unexpected for Abbacchio, just tiring at times like this.
> 
> “For the sake of our team and our standing within Passione, Mista would, unquestioningly, do this.”
> 
> Abbacchio snorts.
> 
> “You having trouble pulling your weight, Abbacchio?” Bruno sighed, “I am asking you to consider sitting back and receiving a fucking blow job… from the payload you are supposed to be watching anyway. It shouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience if she is literally hanging from your dick.”

INTRODUCTIONS

“Bucciarati, can you come to my location? Over.” said Abbacchio over the walkie.

They had been in Texas for a week and today Giorno, Fugo and Narancia had picked up their payload while she was out taking her daily morning jog with minimal fuss. The team had secured 3 furnished apartments scattered about an apartment complex nearby to serve as immediate staging and had plans to move her 48 hours later to an AirBnB on the Gulf Coast. They just had to lay low. Fugo insisted on purchasing the walkies – sometimes they were better than using the phone. He heard that cell phones could be tracked.

Fugo and Narancia had dropped her off at the apartment where Abbacchio was going to keep guard for the first shift. Mista was in another apartment listening for police radio scanner information and watching the local police department’s Twitter for any reports of a missing woman. They had figured out, oddly enough, that the English proficiency didn’t extend to text; he had to use an English-Italian dictionary he kept stowed in a zippered compartment in his thigh.

Giorno was waiting in a van parked at the other entrance to the parking lot, watching for police, while Bruno was doing the same at the second entrance and saw Fugo and Narancia walking around the complex, trying, somewhat successfully, to look inconspicuous as Aerosmith looped lazily in the sky.

This town wasn’t what he was expecting. He hadn’t seen a single cowboy hat or cactus and he had seen quite a few people dressed rather flamboyantly – which meant they could most likely dress as they were accustomed to, so they did, which made them flamboyantly INconspicuous.

Bucciarati responded to Abbacchio’s request, “is there something wrong?”

“No, I just need a quick break.”

“Alright. Fugo, do you copy?”

“Yes. I am here.”

Abbacchio cut in, “no, Bucciarati, I need you to come to my location.”

Bruno darted his eyes to Fugo, who had already changed direction and headed toward the van in anticipation of his boss’ next words.

“Alright. Fugo, take my position. Narancia, continue with your surveillance.”

…

Bruno walked up to the dingy, first floor apartment, passing nodding ferns on the warm spring day. It was midday, but the outside porch light was on, hazy and cobwebbed, in the shade of the live oaks that surrounded the building. He looked over his shoulder one last time then knocked on the door and waited.

Almost immediately the door opened, just a few inches, with Abbacchio glowering from the darkened entry way. Abbacchio looked over Bruno’s shoulder, then motioned for him to come inside, closing the doorway quickly behind him.

“Is there a problem?” asked Bruno in Italian, taking a turn to look over Abbacchio’s shoulder beyond the foyer to see the American sitting on a couch in the small living area. She looked at him with curiosity, with that openness he saw before.

“She’s staring at me,” Abbacchio responded, also in Italian.

“I’m sorry, what?” sputtered Bruno. What an absurdly childish thing for Abbacchio to say.

“You heard me. She is staring at me,” he huffed. “She also propositioned me.”

“What?” Bruno scoffed, bemused. Briefly considering his thoughts on the plane, he couldn’t help but at least internally compliment the woman on her taste in men. Abbacchio, however, was not amused.

“Bucciarati, who IS she?” he spat.

“I honestly don’t know. Polpo just said, in his words, that we needed to keep her ‘safe with no complaints’ until we hand her over to our English client. I was told there will be a few individuals that will be coming to get her, but I have not been given a timeline yet. I don’t know why they want her,” he tried to say with an entirely straight face but seeing the look of concern on Abbacchio’s face caused a bit of a smile to creep into the corners of his mouth.

“Certainly you can handle a woman propositioning you…” Bruno trailed off. “What’s the problem?”

“This is a job,” Abbacchio looked over his shoulder at the woman and Bruno’s eyes followed. She waved. There was that smirk Bruno saw in the photo. 

“I’m a professional,” Abbacchio added, looking back to Bruno’s eyes.

“Well, I am glad we are on the same page on that, but you’re a professional gangster, not a cop. Different game. Different rules. I know this isn’t normally in your wheelhouse, but this is our big chance, Abbacchio. Are you sure she propositioned you?”

Abbacchio gave him a long, hard look.

“You know what? Let me introduce myself, and see what we can see, eh? Maybe you’re just misinterpreting to how Americans act.”

Abbacchio rolled his eyes and moved aside. Bruno pats him on the shoulder as he walks past.

The woman angled herself fully toward Bruno as he entered the living room, expression neutral.

“Hello. Isadora, correct? I am Bruno Bucciarati,” he said in American English with a slight bow. It was his first chance to use this newly acquired skill with an American, it felt weird how effortless the switch was.

She nodded once with a worried brow, but still there was that openness.

Bruno moved on to the kitchenette, methodically checking the contents of the cabinets. One by one he pulled out an electric kettle, cups and a tin of tea. He filled the kettle and turned it on.

Absentmindedly he said over his shoulder, “Are you comfortable? I know this must all seem very shocking.”

“Yes?” She nodded again. Abbacchio finally stopped staring at her from the foyer and sat down at the kitchen table, eyes scanning from Bruno to the woman again.

“Mr. Abbacchio, I know you don’t normally take tea at this hour, but would you like some? How about you, Signora?” he said as he unwrapped a teabag and set it in a cup. Both declined with a shake of their heads.

“Can I have Abbacchio get you anything?” a nonchalant smile played on his lips and an eyebrow arches as he glances briefly at Abbacchio.

“Who ARE you people? Are you police? Give me back my phone. My husband will be worried!”

“Police? It’s funny that you should say that but, not exactly,” he said, suddenly serious. “We’ve been contracted by a third party to protect you. It’s best for everyone that we hold onto your phone for now. It could be tracked after all.”

“Protect me? Contracted by whom? From WHO? Is my _family_ in danger?”

He glanced over at her on the couch. She seemed taller than her file stated, even though she was scared, her back was ramrod straight, defiant. The kettle chimed and he poured the hot water over his tea bag and took a seat at the table with Abbacchio.

“Your family is fine. This is about you. Someone important wants to keep you safe,” he soothed as if he were talking to a child. “To serve our organization’s efforts to expand business globally, a bodyguard unit with unique abilities was contracted for the job, us, because the threat is apparently, unusual.”

“Unusual?”

“Yes, Signora. I am admittedly unclear myself what was meant by that,” he said peering over the rim of his cup, “but don’t worry – you are in good hands.”

“What do you mean by ‘unique abilities’?” she asked in earnest, curiosity peaked.

“For example,” he casually mentions while continuing to sip his tea, “I am very, very good at telling if someone is lying.”

“How does that protect me? I thought you were going to say something like you were good at kung fu or something.”

“You’d be surprised how often it comes in handy,” he said, waving his hand.

After a nod, she went silent, eyes faraway. Bruno could see that she was working something out mentally that would require a follow up question. He waited patiently until her expression changed. And changed again. She looked to Abbacchio. Not at his face, but at his legs. He could feel Abbacchio tensing without looking at him. Why was he acting so strangely around this unassuming woman?

She called out, “Mr. Abbacchio, do you trust Mr. Bucciarati’s lie detecting skills?”

Abbacchio sat up taller and set his jaw, “he’s never been wrong.”

A small, triumphant smile spread across her face. Where was this going? He had to admit, he liked her boldness. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to kill her.

“Mr. Bucciarati, since you are my _protector_ , do you mind demonstrating this for me? You could tell if I am lying right now, correct?”

He nodded slowly, visibly trying to follow the logic of her statements.

She took a deep breath. “Right now, I am equal parts terrified, bored and frankly, aroused…”

Bruno could feel Abbacchio stare at him now, telegraphing plainly ‘See?!?!’.

She continued, “It’s a weird thing that happens to me when my anxiety gets the best of me.” she sighed, sheepishly, “…this is what happens.”

She paused, and swallowed hard, her voice lowering. He could feel Abbacchio lean back.

“I find Mr. Abbacchio’s thighs…absolutely intoxicating,” she said staring again at them now. “Surely he noticed me looking earlier.”

“He did.” Bruno quickly said with a small smirk of his own.

Arms crossed, Abbacchio rolls his eyes and intensifies his glare at Bruno who seemed completely calm, but to those who recognized the miniscule cant of his head, was clearly astonished at the words she was saying. She continued.

“No one here seems like they are going to harm me, I think. Perhaps I am wrong. Certainly you or the others would have had plenty of opportunity to do that already,” she gulped before continuing, “…to pass the time, waiting for this ‘unusual threat’, I’d just really like to…suck his dick. No strings attached.”

“Excuse me?” intoned Bruno, eyes widen for a second.

Now that she got her words out, she looked more confident. She leveled her eyes at Bruno and added, “you see, I have things that I am ‘very very good at’ too.”

Abbacchio crows from behind in Italian, “See? I TOLD you. What kind of woman…” Bruno raises a hand to indicate he had had enough of Abbacchio’s outburst and Abbacchio goes silent.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t you just say you are a married woman?” Bruno asked, clearly bemused.

“Yes, I am. I love my husband very much but our libidos are mismatched and an open arrangement is the way we’ve dealt with it .”

Bruno was now visibly surprised by her frankness. He wrinkled his brow but then smiles again. He looked to Abbacchio who was subtly outstretching his open hands towards her in his ongoing pantomime of ‘see I told you so’ gestures.

As Abbacchio looks at Bruno he can see that he has come to some sort of conclusion. Bruno already knew she was telling the truth. He could see it in those open eyes, but because Abbacchio was acting so skittish, he thought he should take the extra measure to make sure that Abbacchio was convinced of the necessity. He had no qualms asking any of the rest of his team to use their charm and good looks to turn a situation to their advantage, but he suddenly realized he had never asked Abbacchio to do it. Was he coddling him? Did the other men notice this disparity? Fugo was a perceptive one, but he also kept his observations to himself unless directly solicited.

In this moment, Bruno didn’t have the time to consider these uncertainties. One thing he did know is that they needed to prove to The Boss that they were capable of keeping this woman, discretely and none the worse for wear, for an undetermined amount of time. Not honoring her request will make her undoubtedly more agitated, and at least until they could get to the more isolated AirBnB, they would need her to be quiet and compliant. It would be easy enough to zip her mouth shut, but should she struggle in public, that could lead to a tip off to the police. Was this part of a test? Certainly this was too elaborate to be a ruse, but he might as well take the moment afforded to get confirmation.

Bruno rises from his chair, straightening his jacket, and strides with slow confident steps to where she is seated on the couch. Seated beside her, as close as a comforting friend, he gently takes her hand in his and studies her face a long time, looking deep into her eyes. He could feel Abbacchio glaring at them both, knowing that his subordinate would never question him in front of others, but that Abbacchio was really having a hard time stifling the urge to do so. Might as well have a little fun at Abbacchio’s and the woman’s expense. Might as well start treating Abbacchio as an equal member of the team.

She shrank back a bit, looking self-conscious and reflexively licking her lips.

Without warning, he gripped her hand tightly and, pulling it to his face, abruptly licked the length of it with a sly smile.

Isadora gasps, visibly freaked out. She looks back to Abbacchio, horrified, who looks on like this is a completely normal thing, before looking back at Bucciarati, dumbstruck.

There was no tang of deception. She was telling the truth – as he already knew. He could taste that as well as he could taste something else – desire. The pheromones she was pumping out also had a telltale flavor. Of course, he knew all of this from just looking at her eyes, but was pleased that once again his gut served him well. While still clinging to her hand, unbothered by her squirming, Bucciarati looks at Abbacchio and suppressing a smirk says, “on the matter regarding your thighs…she ISN’T lying.”

He loosens his grip and she pulls her hand away immediately and wipes it on her leggings in disgust, looking at one man and then the other. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Bucciarati, can I talk to you for a moment in private?” deadpanned Abbacchio, in Italian.

“Again?”

“Yes.”

Bucciarati gives another slight bow and follows Abbacchio back into the dim foyer, for a follow up conversation in their mother tongue.

“She’s insane. She is probably some rich guy’s mistress and we would all be dead if he finds out that one of us…”

“We don’t know who she is, Abbacchio. We may have to keep her with us for weeks. Realistically speaking, it would be far more expedient if she wants to stay, no?”

“Are you really telling me you WANT me to honor her request?!”

“I am not ordering you to do so, but in light of what I have seen of her, I am inclined to believe that she is less of a flight risk if you indulge her a bit. Christ! I am not ordering you to enjoy it. We can’t move her just yet to the more secluded location. We are at a disadvantage here without Passione contacts, so it is best to give her what she wants, at least in the short term.”

“Get the fuckboy to do it.”

Bruno stiffened. Each member had different assets they brought to the table and Mista’s talents had been useful in many past jobs. The disparaging remark was not unexpected for Abbacchio, just tiring at times like this.

“For the sake of our team and our standing within Passione, Mista would, unquestioningly, do this.”

Abbacchio snorts.

“You having trouble pulling your weight, Abbacchio?” Bruno sighed, “I am asking you to consider sitting back and receiving a fucking blow job… from the payload you are supposed to be watching anyway. It shouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience if she is literally hanging from your dick.”

Abbacchio looks away, muttering, “and if it turns out she is the wayward lover of a jealous man and he finds out?”

Bruno rolls his eyes, “We are stand users. We will figure it out. We are to keep her comfortable; if he was a jealous man, certainly he would know this about her and would have been clear in his initial request. Go ahead and take a moment, but work through this. I am not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t do, haven’t done, myself.”

Without another word, he walked around Abbacchio and stood in the doorway of the living area, hand on his hip. Switching back to English, he addresses the woman, “as our guest, Signora, I want you to be as comfortable as possible considering the unusual circumstances…however, Mr. Abbacchio is not obligated to honor your untoward request, but I have suggested he at least consider it. I need to check my email for an update from my superior. Please excuse me.” And with that, he looked past Abbacchio and headed towards the spare bedroom.

…

IT BEGINS

Isadora looks at Abbacchio, his purple-stained bottom lip jutting out in a slight pout. “Come ON. Either you can give me my fucking phone so I can talk to my husband, or… Look. What do you have to lose? Your boss is here, there is someone else watching outside the door…and your boss _knows_ that you may be indisposed because of your duties on this job. He basically gave you his permission… I bet you’d feel more relaxed. I’m not going to HURT you.”

“I don’t even _have_ your phone. Regardless you aren’t getting it back just yet.”

She rolled her eyes, “soooooooo?”

“I doubt very much that you could hurt me, Signora,” he scoffed. “However, I don’t make it a habit of making myself unnecessarily vulnerable, especially while on the job.”

She huffed, “as if I am some sort of secret assassin. What would put me at enough of a disadvantage that would make you feel less afraid, more in control, of the situation?”

“I AM in control!” he barked and stared at her with a mixture of bewilderment and annoyance. He had had his share of flirty women (and men) under his custody in his days on the force. It was easy enough to rebuff their advances. He prided himself on his professionalism. Having to acquiesce – when the lines were so blurry did not sit with him well, at all – BUT Bucciarati had all but ordered this course of action. Rules were different in the mafia; he knew that well enough.

Bucciarati was disappointed and he wanted to make things right. He thought about Bucciarati’s demeanor throughout the entire interaction with the woman. Those coy glances at him. Those little smiles. What was the subtext there? Abbacchio was not a subtle man; that moment of weakness on the plane when he touched Bucciarati’s cheek almost gave him away. His fingertips still burned thinking of that moment of contact before Bucciarati awoke. He definitely could use a blow job to take the edge off, he reasoned, especially when he couldn’t have a goddamn drink while on duty. He didn’t mind be sucked off by this woman; he just hoped it would take his mind off of the lips he wished were doing the job. The irony. To please his capo that he ached to touch, he has to be touched by a stranger. He’d definitely be opening that bottle of wine he saw earlier once his shift ended.

Abbacchio waited a beat before hoisting himself out of the chair with an exasperated sigh and walking across the living room to a duffel bag that was sitting near the door. Crouching, he pulls out a pair of handcuffs, a billy-club and a revolver and sets them all on the floor before him. He holds her gaze for a moment, his painted eyes glowing ghostly in the dimly lit room. Cat eyes considering her, palpably sizing her up. Her heart drops – if there was any doubt as to what kind of ‘organization’ they were in, it had evaporated. Looking down into the bag, he digs around methodically and finds a scarf. He sets the billy-club back into the bag, but gathers all of the remaining items, first stuffing the scarf in his pocket, taking the gun in his right hand and letting the cuffs dangle from his index finger of his left hand, short, manicured nails painted glossy black.

Springing up from his crouch, Abbacchio sighs, looking at the blank wall and sets his shoulders. He opens the chamber and checks for bullets, closing it with a click. He then turns around, and walks to the couch, shadowing her with his hulking form. Isadora looks up at him, eyes wide, second guessing her earlier bravado. She had been in handcuffs before; those did not phase her. It was the gun. It was a large revolver, polished like his nails – a good fit for his hands.

As if he read her thoughts, he pockets his gun and snatches her wrist with a cruel smile. White teeth glinted in the darkness, contrasting against his dark, painted lips. She resists a little, but he easily overcomes her efforts with another smiling sneer, which sets off a too familiar thrum in her panties.

He clicks the cuff into place and looks through the loose strands of silver falling about his face, an over-groomed eyebrow quirking up.

“Cuff the other hand yourself; this _was_ your idea, remember?”

Smiling nervously, Isadora exhales, then complies. He pulls the scarf out from his pocket, forcibly ties it around her eyes and walks away from the couch to turn off the lights. In the silence she realizes this was either a great idea or a really bad one. Her head was in two different, primal, places – survival and desire. Desire was winning at the moment.

Abbacchio watches her smiling like an idiot with the scarf on and he finds it unnerving. He waits as minutes tick by in the dark, muttering to himself, before saying, “Fine. But if you find yourself bored, or whatever bullshit you told Bucciarati earlier, we will fucking get you a book to read like normal people, Signora.”

He roughly grabs her by an arm and leads her over to stand next to the easy chair in the corner of the drab living room, revolver in his opposite hand. She hears him check the gun’s chamber for bullets a second time. Nerves? Unceremoniously he unfastens and shoves down his pants and sits down.

Silence.

“Well? Get on with it,” he sighed, battling his own mind for what he WAS thinking at a moment like this, what he SHOULD be thinking at a moment like this as a young, nominally Catholic, Italian mafioso, and what he was OBLIGATED to do to fulfill this strongly encouraged “suggestion”. His brain settled on the last erotic thought that got traction in Abbacchio’s mind – the slightly parted, generous lips on the face of Bruno Bucciarati as he slept in the seat next to him on the plane.

From his position in the hall way, Bruno could see Isadora position herself between Abbacchio’s long, splayed legs and drop to her knees. Abbacchio eyes were on the woman, hawklike. Bruno was confused by Abbacchio’s tantrum; he was attracted to women. Why was this such a big deal? He’d do it himself if the tables were turned just to keep this woman cooperating. It was a blow job. No involvement above the waist. He watched Abbacchio fret with the gun in his hands, looking unsure what he should do with them otherwise. He stayed glued to the spot, partially obscured, but eyes fixed on Leone Abbacchio, the one man in all of Napoli he has wanted to see come undone more than any other.

Bucciarati and Abbacchio were not in Napoli.

They weren’t even in Italy.

It was just the two of them in this space, along with a blindfolded woman they would never have to see again.

He took a tentative step into the doorway and it felt like bursting through an unseen membrane. Should Abbacchio look his way, it will all be decided, as ever, on what he sees in Abbacchio’s eyes.

…

Isadora tries to quiet her own pulse that she can hear beating in her head. Tentatively she parts her lips and dives in for one of those thighs. When she makes contact she gives an absolutely carnal but small, contented groan. She licks and nips his inner thighs leisurely, working her way up towards his groin, with purposeful smacking sounds, huffing her warm breath along the long, thick muscles tensing beneath her teeth. She nibbles at the softer contours, savoring the saltiness and the contrast between the sparce, coarse hairs on his inner thigh with the tender flesh underneath that yields to her teeth and tongue.

She can feel him slowly, slowly, let down his guard and relax into it. Although she hasn’t even touched it yet, the heat of his growing erection warms her cheek. The gun is laid down on the small table. He shifts and lets out a small sigh.

Isadora stops a moment and says, “I am envious that you can see him. He is beautiful right now, isn’t he, Mr. Bucciarati?”

“He is,” hoarsely whispers Bucciarati after swallowing audibly. He walks fully into the room, brushing by her kneeling form, and from what she can tell, standing near Abbacchio’s head. Isadora rests her elbows on Abbacchio’s lap and takes his smooth, warm, semi-erect cock into her mouth, holding it a moment, marveling at its dimensions. She smiled to herself – she knew he would be well endowed. With one hand, Abbacchio strokes her hair brusquely.

Isadora can feel Abbacchio’s weight shifting again, awkwardly, silently straining in the direction of Bucciarati. She slides his growing length in and out of her mouth slowly, and she can hear them now. At first, a furtive kiss. Then, the sound of skin smoothing fabric. Then more touches, but becoming more and more earnest, confident.

Politely, she tries to keep her arms out of their way. She hears zippers opening and clothing dropping to the floor. Bucciarati’s elbow bumps against the wall as he leans back against it and moans openly. Abbacchio becomes absolutely rigid in her mouth; his whole body is alive with movement. She can feel his upper body moving with purpose – touching and stroking Bucciarati – while his pelvis and legs reflexively respond to her touch. He is nearing the point of no return and she can taste the salty pre-cum; Isadora continues to slither her mouth and tongue over his entire shaft and messily lathes what she can reach of his scrotum and beyond.

Isadora can hear Bucciarati’s breathing quicken, quicken more, gasp and then sputter – he has cum. There is a stillness – that hangs so heavy in the air such that even Isadora reflexively takes a pause. After a moment, she can hear him clear his throat, zip his pants up and straighten his suit. He quietly glides out of the room while Isadora continues working on Abbacchio, who sighs audibly.

The ringing of a landline surprises them both. Isadora stops for a moment again, with Abbacchio’s head resting in her mouth. She casually runs her tongue along the underside of the ridge of his head while straining to listen. She can hear Bucciarati saying, “…There is no one here by that name…You have the wrong number…No… I am quite sure…”

Isadora resumes, darting under his cock and once again mouthing at his balls. He lifts himself up in the chair as she tongues his taint. She strokes his shaft between her two cuffed hands, elbows splayed out to the sides at an uncomfortable angle.

From between muscular thighs, next thing she can hear is Bucciarati sternly say something to the person presumably guarding the door outside. The door closes.

Bucciarati hurriedly walks back into the room, once again, now stroking Abbacchio’s hair and kissing him feverishly. Leaning towards Bucciarati, Abbacchio’s muscles tighten immediately, his hips begin to rock and he climaxes, hard, against the back of her throat. Isadora milks him with her tongue and throat, finally swallowing, and rests her face on his lightly perspiring abdomen. The only thing Isadora can hear is Abbacchio’s slow, labored breathing and the rapid beating of his heart through his belly. He leans forward, grabs her head in both of his hands… and unexpectedly kisses her on the top of her head, before pushing her back onto her haunches.

He felt that was the right thing to conclude the strange transaction.

He sighs and abruptly gets up to find the keys to the cuffs. She hears him toss them to Bruno from across the room. As Bucciarati removes the scarf. He looks at her, baffled. Blinking as her eyes adjust to the light, she smiles at him, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

Now that things were more relaxed, she took a moment to look at him fully. His open blue eyes were positively oceanic in this lighting, more striking than when she first saw them while they were seated together on the couch. The way that his jawline intersected squarely with his neck, so sublimely masculine, contrasted with the feminine cut and intricate style of his thick, black hair that reminded her of doll hair. He was trim, but solidly built with broad shoulders and the legs of a dancer. She realized now that the bravado that she saw in the younger guys that grabbed her off the street was modeled after him.

Isadora shrugs innocently and offers her wrists to be unlocked. He releases the hand and walks towards the front door. Noticeably pleased with the polite, post blow job kiss, she remained quiet.

“We should move Signora now to Mista’s location. I did not like that phone call.”


	3. The Boy Toy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I promise this is the last time the "oh no the phone rang" bit. And I had to solidify what a ho Mista is in this very self indulgent chapter. Alucard is coming in the next chapter, along with the blood and snark.

Abbacchio reappears to hand Isadora a pair of men's baggy jeans, a hoodie, a beanie to hide her hair, and sunglasses to wear to obscure her appearance and to her own surprise, she quickly pulls them on. The door to the outside world, completely forgotten, opens wide. The sky is becoming periwinkle and violet with the approaching nightfall – normally time to walk the dog. Certainly her husband has called the police by now. She wonders what her husband told her son about her absence – working late?

She shuffles awkwardly between stoic Bucciarati and Abbacchio as they cautiously make their way to the other side of the complex to a different apartment. She thinks of that comedian’s bit about ‘Street Smarts’ – the guy says if you are kidnapped and moved to a second location, your chances of surviving drop. She chuckled darkly to herself, then remembering the gun and billy-club, cursed herself for laughing. Why couldn’t she take this seriously? She could still faintly taste Abbacchio on her tongue.

…

What in the hell had just happened? Who was that on the phone? If they were in Napoli, the police would have raided by now; do American cops do things that differently? Bruno let his guard down for a moment and this is what happens. SOMEONE knows where they have taken her. He berated himself on the walk to Mista’s location. When the American heard him from the doorway, he should have _just_ _walked away_. He saw that her shoulders and head were busy in Abbacchio’s lap, and he saw him stroking her hair, his purple-stained lips barely parted. How did she hear him? But once she spoke, Abbacchio eyelids shot open, eyes focused like a laser, on him. Bruno saw desire, not for her, but for HIM, burning in those dragon eyes that answered his gaze. Desire he did not know was there, but that he was painfully eager to reciprocate.

Bruno looked at those eyes, and was pulled in. He didn’t remember taking the first step towards the corner of the room. He blinked and then found himself drowning in the phosphorescent pools of Abbacchio’s eyes, snug between the wall and the chair, where Abbacchio sat with his chest heaving slightly, legs sprawled wide and the woman coaxing an erection out of him.

They stared at each other and the moment Abbacchio moved his lips to speak, Bruno closed his eyes and was upon him. A slow, experimental kiss. When Abbacchio reached out for Bruno’s shoulder and held him there, they stopped, breathing each other’s breath, feeling the electricity prickle between them. Their stands shimmered beneath their skin, extending out as extra hands stroked and pulled at each other’s hair. Bruno’s eyelids rose slowly to see the kohl-lined eyes beckon him onward. He closed them again, pulling Sticky Fingers back and stroked Abbacchio’s hair with his own hand. Abbacchio pulled Bruno’s shoulder towards him so that their teeth bumped, but they continued to explore, map out, each other’s mouths. The woman was enthusiastic and Bruno caught a glimpse of Abbacchio’s proud erection as she worshipped it with her mouth and cuffed hands. He wished he was in her place. Their hands wandered all over each other and when Abbacchio cupped Bruno’s erection, he leaned back, biting his lip, silently, greedily, begging for more. He summoned Sticky Fingers back again, creating a zipper from the corner of his pants all the way down one thigh. Moody Blues ran a hand up from Bruno’s knee to the zipper pull and peeled off the tailored white pants, which pooled onto the floor beneath him. Abbacchio leaned over the edge of the chair and took Bruno into his mouth fully, working maddeningly fast, hands on hips and bare ass, bringing Bruno to completion in an embarrassingly short amount of time. Considering the furtive nature of the whole encounter though, it made sense. He didn’t have the time for slow love making, they WERE still on the job – and god bless him, Abbacchio knew it. He really WAS a professional. He pulled himself together to leave the room and check in with the team when the damned phone rang.

A woman’s voice was asking for the American by name. NO ONE, except his team, should know that this is where the woman was. Even his superiors within Passione did not. Certainly that couldn’t be her husband. This wasn’t good; could someone have been picking up on their walkie communications or tracked her phone? He went to the front door to find Fugo standing guard; he told him about the call and directed him to check in with each of the members then report back to him.

He went back into the apartment, clearing his throat to tell them to get ready to move, but when he came back into the room, the eyes pulled him back in. He was so close to climax; it was Abbacchio’s turn to beg. Sticky Fingers and Bruno touched him everywhere the woman wasn’t. Bruno took the liberty he was finally granted and brutally kissed and nipped Abbacchio. He darted a hand beneath fabric to tug and pinch at erect nipples. Sticky Fingers ran his hands through Abbacchio’s hair and pulled. The stand, the man and the woman brought Abbacchio to come in the woman’s throat. Bruno locked eyes with Abbacchio when he finally opened his, and once again, the silent message was transmitted – we need to get out of here. 

As he walked in front, Bruno could hear the two pairs of foot steps behind him but looked back over his shoulder anyway. The American was shuffling along, head down, in baggy clothes and shoes that were too big, and behind her walked Abbacchio, his face his usual ‘tough guy’ mask, lagging behind, scanning left and right.

This heat of the moment thing was regrettable. It should not have happened. He knew that. Damn that horny American woman. He would make sure to discuss this with Abbacchio at the next opportunity they had. For now, they needed to move, at least to one of the other apartments. Fugo was working on getting them out of the complex and to hotel rooms outside of town.

…

Abbacchio stands guard outside of the second apartment on the other side of the complex. Bruno ushered her inside and Bucciarati introduces Isadora to another member of his team, a young man named Mista, who is wearing the most improbable combination of a blue crop top sweater, a strange red and blue cowl that has an arrow pointing down the middle of his forehead, as well as a pair of knee-high boots, red tiger-striped pants IN WHICH A GUN WAS TUCKED INTO THE WAISTBAND, pointing right at his family jewels. His dark eyes were shark-like, but the effect was softened by his long lashes. He nods at her once and gives an easy smile.

The conversation between the two men switch to Italian again. This isn’t THE Italian mob, right? Isadora tries to pick up the gist of the conversation using her knowledge of Spanish but she loses the thread quickly, watching the body language to try to understand. Mista was quite animated – and grabbed his gun a few times during the short conversation to scratch his temple with it and, after tucking it back into his pants, to caress it with two fingers while saying something to Bucciarati in a low voice. Abruptly Mista laughs at something Bucciarati has said. He looks at Isadora and back again at Bucciarati. He switches to English. “You got it, Boss!” he grins. “Tell Abbacchio he doesn’t have to worry his pretty little head about that _any_ more. Aaaand he owes ‘the boy toy’ a big favor. He’ll know what I mean.” Bruno rolls his eyes but nods. Mista winks at Isadora and then saunters off to the living room where she can hear a soccer match being loudly broadcasted.

Bucciarati turns to her. Offhandedly he says, “Narancia and Giorno are also here. You met them earlier,” in the same way that a friend would remind you of someone you met at a company Christmas party – only he was referring to her KIDNAPPERS. This much she knows for sure, but she doesn’t feel malice, just casual professionals. Mr. Abbacchio said it was the other guy, Fugo, that took her phone; where was that guy? She was sure her husband had left a dozen angry text messages at this point. She hoped he had called the police by this time. Who in the fuck thinks that she needs protection? They have to have the wrong person. What will they do once they figure that out?

Bucciarati yells over his shoulder to tell Mista he will be leaving to talk to check in with Fugo, and frankly, Isadora is relieved. She basically hooked up with Mr. Bucciarati and Mr. Abbacchio and in normal situations like that, she didn’t like to stick around afterwards. Mr. Bucciarati tells his subordinates to keep sharp and to report anything unusual immediately, then leaves the apartment. She explores the new space, which disappointingly, looks nearly identical to the last.

On the living room couch sat Mista and Narancia, the wiry little guy with the knife that first approached her on her jog. He had to be in high school. They were both leaning forward, elbows on knees, enthusiastically watching the match on TV. They would lean into one another when they spoke, smiling and laughing like regular people, not kidnappers. There was a deck of cards, snack bags, protein bar wrappers and soda cans all over the coffee table before them – like regular people. Narancia kept stealing side glances at the handsome devil on the couch, leaning into him when he cracked a joke. Mista’s laughs seemed forced, but he smiled and kept the banter going.

Feeling like a third wheel, she wandered into the kitchen, and stops short when she makes eye contact with the blond one that looked like a Botticelli angel.

“I heard you are a science teacher, what subject do you teach?”

“Biology mostly,” she said as she sat down across from him.

He perked up. “Really? I like to learn about the unique abilities of living things; it’s my hobby,” he said, smiling.

His eyes were the greenest she had ever seen, probably contacts. A strange and vain choice, she thought, but then considering his oddly tailored suit and elaborate hairstyle, she realized it was probably the least surprising thing about him.

“That is an unexpected hobby for someone in your line of work.”

He tilted his head in such a way that it reminded her of a much older version of her sweet, blond son, which made her maternal heart ache. Even the other ones that grabbed her – they looked like her students too. God. She was such a sucker for down and out teens.

Softening, she added, “then you should read a book called ‘Parasite Rex’ – it talks about the craziest parasites I have ever heard of. Scared me more than any horror novel. I’d let you borrow my copy, but, you know, you have me kidnapped here…” she shrugged.

“We’re protecting you, Signora. You are our _guest_ ,” he says, getting up from his chair. He smoothed his jacket in a practiced manner.

“Thank you for the book recommendation. I have to go now and relieve another member of my team. Ciao,” he finished and glided past her. She felt badly. He seemed like a nice kid, and now she felt like she had offended him. Wait. Why does she care she offended someone who stuffed her into a car against her will?

“By the way,” he called from the hallway flatly, “you have lipstick on your forehead.”

Narancia gets up when he sees Giorno leaving. Apparently he was supposed to stand guard outside and realizes he has been watching the game for too long.

“Oi, Mista. Update me if the German team catches up to them!” Narancia shouts as they walk out the door.

…

She stood behind the couch, eyeing Mista in the dimly lit room. He had broad shoulders and she could see beneath the crop top, the vertical bands of back muscles flexed as he shifted his weight. Her clit distantly pinged; although her encounter with Abbacchio was hot, it admittedly still left her frustrated and wanting. Mista seemed like the perfect tonic.

“Like what you see, Signora?” he winked and tossed his head back slightly. “My boss said you could probably use some companionship.”

Perfect and willing.

“He did? What else did Mr. Bucciarati say?”

He turned down the volume with the remote and sat back against the couch.

“Nothing bad. He just said you would probably be more patient with the whole situation if I was able to help address some of your needs.”

“Something related to your ‘boy toy’ title?” She walked from behind the couch to the end, and leaned on the armrest.

“Probably.” She could hear him smiling in the darkness. “Something related to what Abbacchio probably didn’t provide. That bowlegged son of a bitch is stingy like that. It’s a pity, right? Because he is packin’ heat.”

“Oh? And how would you know that?”

“Signora,” he looked back at her over his shoulder, “At one point or another, I’ve had them all. I say my prayers; I shoot to kill; and I always make sure my partner comes twice before I do – even if it turns out my partner isn’t willing to return the favor. In his case, I’d like to think it’s because he so thoroughly enjoyed himself, I wore him right out.” He pats the space on the couch next to him, “come take a seat.”

He felt a little dishonest because he was rounding up the numbers a bit. He HAD had Abbacchio (twice, actually)…and his boss (once, before he went out on his first seduction mission, to prove his point)…and a very drunk Fugo a couple times after clubbing. It was just a matter of time until the other two came calling. Fake it until you make it, right? He scoops up the cards scattered on the table. “Do you know how to play the game War?” 

She nods. Although she started the game begrudgingly playing along, offput by his Casanova vibe, she warmed up quickly. Before long they are laughing at each contest, competitively keeping score. They talk casually about the weather back in Italy, travel, about American soccer, about her school and his family back in Italy.

“What food is your town known for? Is there a special dish?” he asks enthusiastically, winning the latest play.

“Well, we are known for our barbeque, but since I am vegetarian, I couldn’t give you an honest recommendation on which place is best.”

He laughs, “We talked about vegans on the flight over here. I think that animals that eat plants taste better.” 

“We do,” she smiles coquettishly.

He looks down quickly with a flash of, nervousness, or, more likely, just a little game of ‘hard to get’?

“How old ARE you, Mista?”

“Nineteen. How old are you?”

“Oooof. Twenty-seven,” she grinned. “Hey, to make this a little more interesting, I have a proposition. Every time a face card is played, the player must lose an item of clothing,” she smiled.

“You’ll most likely win the _play_ since face cards are high – but it will come at a cost. I bet you twenty-five American dollars you will lose all your clothes before me. Are you in?" She cocks an eyebrow.

“What is that in Euros?”

“I have no idea what the exchange rate is. Hmmmm. It would easily pay for a round of well drinks for both of us at a bar here though.”

He holds her gaze, then shrugs nonchalantly and says, "fine. Hope the room is warm enough for you, because you’re going to be as naked as the day you were born soon enough."

They alternate losses - he loses his sweater, to let her check out the merchandise; she loses a shoe. Just a shoe? He’s somewhat insulted she didn’t follow his lead. He mirrors her tactic and removes a boot on his next loss while she removes the other shoe. He plays another face card. Time to do the big reveal. Hope she digs this. He stands up and sets his gun on the table, then shimmies off his tight pants to reveal a delicate pair of black lace briefs.

“Well that is unexpected,” she quirks.

“Yeah, this little thing was a token of appreciation for my, uh, work ethic.” He cocked his head to the side playfully. “I told you, Signora. I’ve had them all – and not a single complaint.”

“What is that metallic thing on your leg?”

“It’s a zipper. It’s all the rage in Naples - like piercings,” he lied.

“Oh.”

She had a run of face cards – and she loses the hoodie, shirt and her sports bra. Now he can really see what he’s working with – not bad in a MILFy sort of way. Once Isadora is no longer wearing anything covering her breasts, she makes her move. Finally. Mista is ready when she swoops over the coffee table, breasts swaying slightly and kisses his heavy lips.

Checkmate. He returns the kiss and deepens it.

Guess he should let Narancia know they’ll be busy for a bit. He pulls away suddenly and gets up, which causes her to look confused. Keep ‘em guessing. Keep trailing those breadcrumbs until they go crazy; he’s done this countless times. He does his best cowboy swagger slowly, so she can get an eyeful of the payoff for all those hours at the gym, as he walks to the door. He sways his ass out behind him, pops his head outside the door, and gives Narancia the heads up. Done. Next, he comes back in, grabs her by the hand and leads her toward the bedroom and she is grinning like a fool. Bucciarati said to keep her compliant. Abbacchio is such a pain in the ass. Do your work and get your dick wet at the same time? Why the fuck not?! Why does Bucciarati put up with Abbacchio’s shit?

Once in the room, he kisses her hard, squeezing her ass. She’s nowhere near the oldest person he’d seduced. It’s kinda hot thinking about her as a teacher; it wasn’t that long ago he was still in school. Lips locked and breathing heavily through the nose, they tumble onto the small bed. They tear the remaining clothes off quickly and he sets his phone, walkie and gun down on the bedside table, grinning.

He positions himself between her legs and lays atop her, keeping the zipper out of the range of eyes or hands, suckling one nipple and putting his thumb in her mouth which she enthusiastically sucks on while running her hands down his muscular back.

“Wanna call Abbacchio in a little bit?”

Confused she pulls his thumb from her mouth. “Why?” she pants before popping the digit back in.

“Because it’d be funny. Two people he blue-balled both getting off? Together? Are you a screamer? I bet you are.” He unlocks his phone, finds the address book and hands it over to Isadora. “I’m going to eat you out – like you’ve never had it before. When you want to come, I want you to hit that call button and just set the phone back down on the table. Then let me take care of the rest,” he said before diving down between her thighs.

Within a few licks, she sighs contentedly. How nonchalant he was – no fear of her calling 911. This confused her even more – before his tongue _made_ her forget. It wasn’t the most mind blowing cunnilingus but he definitely knew what he was doing.

“I guess we can see if my theory was right about vegetarians,” he smiled as he kissed the inside of her thigh. He rests his arms on either side of her waist; she strokes his hair with one hand, still clutching the phone with the other. His tongue alternates between direct contact with her clitoris and less intense stroking indirectly, using his mouth and hands to stroke everything from her clit to both of her entrances and everything in between. She is surprisingly close to climaxing, when she remembers she was given a job to do. She fumbles with the phone but drops it onto the floor.

“Mista?” she pants. “I dropped the phone…”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get him on the next round.” This was an order, and Mista always does what Bucciarati tells him to do – keep her happy. He was just going to add the phone call in to give Abbacchio some shit for being such a diva. He uses two fingers to try to find her G-spot, her C-spot, her A-spot and any other spot he’d read about online. He’s not really sure exactly which one did it, but her thighs jolt suddenly and she lets out a sharp, surprised cry and her hips and abs rhythmically rock.

“One down, and one to go.”

She nods weakly with a satisfied smile on her face. Her knees are still twitching as he rolls her over onto her belly. “Let’s see if we can do that again, Signora. Can you raise your hips for me?”

He leans over the side of the bed. He lobs the phone back up towards her shoulder and fumbles with his hat – from which he procures a condom.

“Do you always keep a condom in there?”

“That and bullets, yeah. I keep them everywhere - tools of the trade.”

A few quick strokes and he is ready to go. He slips it on quickly and from his knees he slides in and they start to grind against each other. He slams into her again and again, adding a little torque with each stroke, and she seems to be feeling it too based on the way she is gripping those sheets. She reaches around to tug at his balls; he appreciates her efforts – WAY more giving than Abbacchio was when in a nearly identical situation.

They are finding their rhythm, pounding, grinding.

A landline phone rings.

They freeze and listen, not sure if they heard the sound. Mista then curses as the phone rings again; he pulls his cock out so quickly she gasps. He walks halfway across the room, but pauses, uncertain if the phone will ring again. At the start of the third ring they hear Bucciarati pick up the phone.

“Was he in here the whole time?” she loudly whispered.

Mista thinks for a moment. “No idea, but we should probably get dressed all the same."

They both casually shift through for the clothing strewn about the room and then pull them on quickly.

"…No, I am sorry. You must have the wrong number…I am sorry, but I don't believe we've spoken before..."

Bucciarati bursts into the room and says, "We have to move now!"

He tosses the clothes discarded in the living room at them - ordering Isadora to get into Mista's clothes and vice versa to confuse whoever might be watching. He better get that sweater back it is one of his favorites. Mista stays behind in the drab, ill-fitting clothes she was wearing when she got there.

Fugo follows them when they exit the apartment, and the three hurriedly walk to a 3rd apartment with Bucciarati on his walkie, checking in with other members of his group that are providing cover. They take their time getting past exposed areas like the pool and the community garden.

Once inside the new apartment, Fugo and Isadora are told to switch clothes. Again! Fugo leaves the apartment in Mista’s ridiculous outfit, cowl included, looking mortified. Isadora feels even more silly in the suit Fugo was wearing with so many strange peek-a-boo cut-aways. Do these guys actually think they are blending in?

“Hey, can you at least check the messages on my phone?”

“Sorry, Signora. I handed your phone off to Narancia a while ago.”

“Goddamn it. Did you notice if I had any messages.”

“I think so. Yes,” and with that he left.


	4. Our Man in Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alucard and Seras make their appearance. Rare sighting of Abbacchio and Bucciarati actually acting like mafia bodyguards.

“So, Mr. Bucciarati, did Abbacchio happen to find any books for me?”

“No,” he deadpans, “but we can have Fugo bring you some soon. Please be patient. Right now is not a good time.”

“Can he bring me my phone too?”

He shook his head dismissively.

“I am hungry - like hungry hungry. I haven’t eaten since your ‘coworkers’ picked me up. Is there any food in this kitchen?” She wanders into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “It doesn’t look very promising.”

Bucciarati sighs, knowing he won’t get anything else done. Maybe it was for the best. Fugo was still working on the logistics of their hotel room. Maybe they moved evasively enough that the mystery caller lost them.

He sticks his head outside the door and asks Giorno to find tomatoes and basil in the garden just beyond the apartment. They end out assembling a passable pasta marinara; she drinks a couple of glasses of wine while he sips from the first glass he poured and diluted with water. Bucciarati surprises Isadora by stepping out the door with a bowl of spaghetti for the man guarding outside. Over dinner, feeling a little better now that her belly is full, Isadora tries to humanize herself to him, to appeal to his sense of right, in hopes that should it come to it, he’d be less likely to kill her.

“Are you sure you’ve kidnapped…”

He levels a glare at her.

“that you are _protecting_ the right person?”

He rattles off her full name, her address, the name of the school where she works, as well as her multiple aliases on social media, even one she forgot about.

“Why would you need to protect that person?”

He tosses his chin back and raises a brow. “Bodyguards are discreet. We don’t ask questions unless it pertains to our job, although I will say, I am frustrated by the vagueness of it all too.”

“Well, for the record, I don’t think you have the right person. I mean, I know that all of that is ME, but maybe you are ‘protecting’ the wrong person.”

“We were given an order to pick YOU up and protect you until further notice. You are alive and well. I feel like we have been more than accommodating…”

There’s an awkward pause. She tries to revive the conversation.

“So, you’re a mobster then?”

“That is one word for me, I suppose.” He swirls the wine in his glass.

“If you don’t mind me saying, you seem a bit young for a mobster, especially one in charge of other mobsters. Are they coworkers?”

“They report to me, I hand chose them in fact,” he said with a prideful smile, “my team and I are younger than some, that is true, but better than most of them out there.”

“Growing up, did you _aspire_ to become a mobster?”

Bruno laughed, genuinely, but he could feel the corners of his mouth tugging downward. “No. Most who do are fools.”

To pass the time, he thought he’d tell her some vague anecdotes about fishing, the Mediterranean, but before he realized it, they had morphed into more personal anecdotes - about his mother and his team. He realized he was sharing far more than he had intended. It was the unusualness of this job and that damn open expression of hers.

“I am rambling. Sorry.”

“Not at all. Passes the time while we…wait, I guess? From what you’ve said, it sounds like you do a good job watching out for everybody. Is there someone special in Naples who takes care of you?”

“Mostly I take care of myself, but my team does as well.”

Isadora says, "like Mr. Abbacchio?"

Bruno slips a withering look before dialing it back to neutral; he definitely deserved that. Just a little reminder of the loose ends he now had to deal with. If she mentions any of what transpired earlier to the team, well, what would he do? He has orders to protect her. He takes a breath.

"My apologies. The last couple of phone calls have gotten me on edge and I do not like knowing so little about why we are here to protect you. I usually am given a little more context. My boss said I would be receiving a call with more orders from him, and only him - but there is another caller, a woman with an English accent, who has asked for you. It’s puzzling. You just don't seem like our usual payload."

“I told you – I don’t think I AM your payload. I just hope once y’all figure this out, you’ll let me go, no harm no foul. That’s not an accent I hear a lot here in Houston. In fact, the only Brits I have EVER known are from my college days as a foreign exchange student; but I didn’t exactly do a great job of staying in touch.”

Isadora shrugs and gets up from the table. As she walks towards the bathroom she continues, voice trailing off “Thanks for whatever role you had in setting me up with your ‘boy toy’. It’s an addiction of sorts, really. Diagnosed by a professional and everything, hypersexual disorder. Nowadays I can control it. It’s only under high stress situations that I fall off the wagon. I’ll tell you what. If you return me to my sweet, longsuffering husband, I’ll stay out of your team’s pants.”

He can hear her close the bathroom door. Bucciarati realizes no one is around to clean up the dishes for them. With nothing better to do at the moment, he gets up and takes them to the sink when he hears Fugo’s voice on the walkie.

“Bucciarati, we are all set. We can move when you are ready. The other locations are packed up. Abbacchio is on his way to you and Giorno to assist if necessary.”

“Thank you. Stand by.”

Right. Abbacchio. Another loose end. Up to this point, Bruno had done a good job to conceal his interest in Abbacchio from the team – at least he thought he had. Giorno was so good at reading people in general, and Fugo was so good at reading Bruno specifically.

He prided himself on discretion, a natural extension of a bodyguard’s duty; a good model for his team. As their leader, he tried to keep his personal life out of sight, out of mind. Not to mention he was a Catholic; he was in the mafia; he was the Bucciarati Family’s last surviving male heir; and he was queer. Whatever happened today was a very bad idea for a mafia team – it messes with the dynamics. But…

He objectively assessed the situation. Mistakes were made but, so far, the sky didn’t fall. This woman’s libido was ridiculous, infectious almost, but it led him to Abbacchio’s touch and admittedly, his cock already hungered for it again. Deep breath. Time to reset back to familiar territory. Abbacchio was coming because he and Fugo ranked higher than the rest – Fugo because he was the first member and Abbacchio because... Why did the other three automatically step back if he was involved? DID they see it? Fuck. Push it all away and fall back into auto pilot. Don’t have time for this now.

There is a knock on the door. Bruno opens it to allow Abbacchio inside. They barely look at each other. Bruno lets Giorno know they are leaving shortly then closes the door.

“She’s in the bathroom. I need to grab my bags. Can you wipe down the kitchen to make sure there are no traces left? The table and chairs too.”

Abbacchio nods. The bathroom door opens and she looks at them both, a knowing glance, then walks by, into the living room. They hear the TV click on from the darkened room.

Bruno goes to the bedroom to pack up his things. Glad to be busy. He never fully unpacked, just in case of a situation like this. His mobile rings. It is Polpo. Thank god.

They are going to be visited by some Englishmen. Just the initial contact – not the handover yet. His team is to hold her until the head of the Englishman’s organization has a chance to talk to her. Bruno gives the address of the hotel where they are heading, leaving out the part that they are switching locations and why. When Bruno asks Polpo if he can know any other details on the payload or who will represent their client, Polpo chuckles that their client’s representatives would likely be hard to miss and hangs up.

.

.

.

"Lucy, I'm home!” suddenly booms a man’s deep voice from within the apartment. Shortly followed by, “What in theeee FUCK are you WEARING?!?!”

Abbacchio and Bucciarati dash into the room; their jaws drop, astounded to see Isadora laughing, hugging and talking excitedly with a preposterously tall man in a red coat and a ridiculous hat accompanied by a small blonde woman in some sort of khaki uniform.

“Two targets. Both clear. Grab the package,” said Abbacchio switching to bodyguard mode. In an instant he drew his gun and fired four shots in quick succession, two into the blonde’s chest; one in the man’s forehead and one into his chest. They’ve practiced this scenario a hundred times, and used it dozens; just as always, Bruno lunged toward his payload, pulling her to his chest with animal grace and rolling downward, towards the zipped entrance Sticky Fingers opened in the floor.

Isadora was wide-eyed, screaming and clinging to the blonde’s arm, who lay folded awkwardly on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Bruno didn’t fight her tight grip on the woman, but instead unzipped the blonde’s arm and dragged Isadora, still clutching onto the bleeding limb, into the yawning void.

The last sound Isadora heard over her sobs muffled against Mr. Bucciarati’s chest was the distinct sound of a zipper, then Mr. Abbacchio emptying the rest of his gun into Alucard, yelling in Italian.

…

While in his pocket dimensions, Bruno could still hear things in the outside world. He held his breath reflexively and strained to listen. He could feel the American sobbing, but in the void, there is no sound. Finally he heard Abbacchio gave the all clear and Bruno zipped them back out.

Outside the void, Bruno can hear Isadora wailing now. He allows her to drop to the floor to the two corpses. He is confused. He hopes this isn’t her husband but he can’t really make out what the broken syllables coming from her mouth mean. Shit. Was this their English contact? He looks to Abbacchio, who storms to the front door and throws it open, glaring at Giorno who was keeping watch outside.

“Giorno Giovanna, did you leave your post?” his voice is measured. Angry but you can hear the hint of adrenaline still surging.

“No, Abbacchio,” sighed Giorno, “I have been here, this entire time. Did you just _kill_ that school teacher?”

Abbacchio grabs him by the jacket, glowering. “No, dumbass, but what I want to ask YOU is, if you haven’t left your post, how did _these two_ get past you?”

He stabs an angry finger back into the apartment, directed at the two carcasses. 

Giorno seemed genuinely confused, “I have not left for at least an hour, since before you arrived.” Rooted in the spot in the doorway he addresses Bruno directly, who had come to the foyer. “Bucciarati, I have not sensed anyone inside since I took my post but you, the payload, and then Abbacchio.”

Abbacchio slams the door in Giorno's face before Giorno makes any more excuses. He didn’t feel like putting up with Giorno’s attitude at the moment. Bucciarati tends to coddle that one for some infuriating reason. He looks at his boss.

“Well done, Abbacchio.” He pats him on the shoulder. “Get on the walkie and call the rest of the team to shore up this location; there may be more of them. I am going to check on the payload.”

Isadora is huddled protectively over the two people. She had awkwardly placed the arm back at the blonde’s shoulder and was muttering to them, touching their shoulders, while tears, drool and snot ran, comingled, down her face. She looked up at Bruno with hate brimming in her eyes.

“Get the fuck away from them. What did they do? Why did he kill them? Get the fuck away from ME.”

How best to go from here. Whatever they were protecting her from, he didn’t anticipate this.

“Signora, you are leaving your fingerprints all over the place. We need to get you to a safe location. We just saved you.”

“Saved me? From THEM?” she chokes back angry tears. “These are my FRIENDS, and let me tell you, you are going to be SO sorry. They are going to get up any minute now and probably KILL you. HE can take a joke, but Seras is going to be PISSED. You’ll see.”

No time to argue just how very dead they were. Shit. Collateral damage from OUT OF NO WHERE. Casual cooperation from her was over. She wasn’t used to the carnage that they saw all the time, that they _caused_ all the time. The quicker they moved her from the gory remains of her friends, while still somewhat in shock, the better.

“It’s regrettable, but they are gone. We need to leave, Signora,” said Bruno in a gentler tone, “Are there more…friends?”

She just glared at him, and now Abbacchio, as he joined Bruno in the doorway, in Italian, he reported, “Kitchen is clean. Do you want Giovanna to take care of this? Turn it all into frogs or roaches or something?”

“Just wait until I get her out of here. Give me a minute,” Bruno replied back, in Italian, nodding. He kept his eyes on Isadora, who was leaned down over the dead man’s head. Her eyes were wild, darting between the man and woman, counting bullet wounds, which were no longer flowing; their hearts had definitely stopped.

“Come on, guys. I know y’all are sleeping. Please? I have no idea what in the fuck is going on, but try not to kill them – at least not the kids… Like I was saying before we were _so rudely interrupted_ ,” she gave another angry stare at Bruno, “this has been the weirdest fucking day…”

“Signora, are there any _more_ of your friends here?” Bruno repeated, more sternly this time, “Someone has undoubtedly called the police. We really need to move.”

“Why would I go _anywhere_ with you? I am staying with them.”

Bruno hears the door open and looks over his shoulder. In a low voice, Abbacchio directs Mista and Fugo to come inside and hands Bruno’s bags out the door to Narancia and Giorno. Abbacchio hangs back by the door, reloading his gun with bullets he got from Mista. The three men take their places behind Bruno, awaiting his next order, stand auras glimmering slightly. He can tell they have already made some sort of plan to subdue her if necessary, as evidenced by zip ties poking out from Mista’s boot and the cloth hood they’ve used before in Fugo’s hand.

Isadora wipes her face, giggling a bit. It makes the men nervous but she gets up, squares her shoulders and faces them. Bruno holds up his hand, to signal the men to wait.

“Sorry, Mr. Fugo,” she sniffed. “Your suit is pretty messed up,” she smiled as she wiped her nose on the bloody sleeve.

Then a voice.

A female voice that was not the American’s.

A voice with a thick Cockney accent.

An ENGLISH accent.

The voice grunts “what in the fuck is YOUR problem?”

The blonde SITS UP, to Bruno’s astonishment. He can FEEL both Mista and Abbacchio draw their guns and level them at the trio. She is still bleeding, profusely - but she isn’t even winded – just glaring at Abbacchio, who manages to return the stare with equal intensity despite the absurdity of her calm.

Bruno re-assesses the individuals who are both obviously very much alive. In the split second before Abbacchio shot, he saw eyes brimming with predacious cunning (and surprise) when they first saw he and Abbacchio, but also now, he saw – playfulness? - protectiveness? He already noted the blonde girl’s obvious English accent. Damn, if these were the contacts…thank goodness, they must have worn bullet proof vests. But he doesn’t like the look of the man in red who is now ineffectively patting the dust and gore from his pants, and staggering into a stand, rising to that impressive height despite the visible head wound. Blood trickles from his forehead, down the side of his nose and into his mouth. He licks it and smiles with an impossible mouthful of teeth.

Stand users? They aren’t ‘normal’ but don’t _seem_ like stand users, he certainly doesn’t see an aura around them and his team is trained to call out the sighting of a stand user whenever one is encountered. Bruno turns to look up at the large, gaunt man in the eye. "Are you English? How did you get in here?"

"My parentage says otherwise, but yes, we just arrived from England," smiles Alucard slyly, pointedly ignoring the second question. “Can I help you?”

Isadora wheels around with a squeal and hugs them both bodily, “I knew it! Thank god!”

“Bucciarati, what do you want us to do?” asked Fugo gently.

Holding onto both of the newcomers Isadora interrupts, still sniffling, "I am sorry, please let me do introductions! Mr. Bucciarati, Mr. Abbacchio, Mr. Fugo, and Mr. Mista, these are my good friends, whom I haven’t seen in ages, Alucard and Seras.”

She notices the mobsters’ blank expressions. Pointing to them she said, “I think these gentlemen are in the Italian mafia? I don’t know, anyway, they say that they are protecting me, although I still am unclear from what. This is so weird! What are you guys doing here? I don’t care - I am so glad you are here!”

“Great. More Catholics,” groaned Alucard.

“So, your employer is _English_?” Bruno signals to his men to stand down. Mista and Abbacchio put their guns away, but their stand auras still glow slightly.

Alucard rolls his eyes, “YES. Jesus. We came here to pick up this pain in the ass.” He nods towards the woman who subtly rolls her eyes. “Sorry for the inconvenience?”

He looks at Isadora, ignoring the mobsters. “Apparently you saw something you weren’t supposed to see. Integra got wind of it at a meeting on Downing Street; now a team is being sent to see what you know and make sure you don’t talk, if you catch my drift. They are not exactly known for their subtlety… Why aren’t you at home being all domestic and shit? You definitely didn’t make it easy to track you down,” he poked Isadora, who in turn pointed at the mobsters.

Alucard looks at the men, “Who ARE you guys and why the fuck are you here?”

“We’re here to protect her on behalf of your employer,” said Bucciarati, with more confidence coming through his voice than he thought would project. “As the lady said, my name is Bruno Bucciarati.”

Alucard shakes his head, “whatever.”

Bruno is definitely confused.

Alucard looks back to Isadora. “The person sent for you is a fellow countryman…actually country boy? Anywho, is named Ciel Phantomhive but, more importantly, he has a prick of a butler named Sebastian Michaelis. Any chance to shoot that guy in his smug, fucking face is not to be missed…”

Mista looks around at his team and laughs, "We were sent here, all the way from Italy to deal with a _kid_ and his _butler_?"

"The butler is a demon. An actual demon," says Seras, serious. "Humans aren't really well equipped to deal with that sort of enemy."

Fugo puzzles at the way the woman says ‘humans’. "Some people get confused when they see some of the things our team can do and say that we are demonic, or heavenly, but we aren’t," says Fugo condescendingly. “He probably just has special abilities like ours.”

Bruno gestures for Fugo to not say anything else. He has so much potential but still so naïve in surprising ways. He’s easily the most intelligent member of the team when it comes to logistical decisions, but when it came to interacting with people, when to give info and when to hold back. In part, Bruno believes it’s Fugo’s pride – pride in having a stand, pride in his team – and he wants to continue to foster that pride, but he needs to develop other skills too. Fugo should have picked up at this point that these people don’t seem to be stand users because they weren’t reacting to the flaring auras. As such, they should hold those trump cards close, since it would seem that pair have some tricks up their sleeves as well.

"Look, The Hellsing Organization got involved because, although the Queen does -we do _not-_ trust Phantomhive; Sebastian Michaelis is a unique target that we’ve watched _for years_. We were quite surprised when we found out an American - that we actually knew - was involved," states Alucard with a shrug. “She’s considered a friend of the Hellsing Organization.”

Isadora beamed.

"Don’t feel too flattered. He just really wants to shoot that demon in the face.” In a move that could be interpreted as playful banter as well as a literal grab for a prize, Seras lays her hand on Isadora’s shoulder. She then looks to Bruno, “well, we thank you for, what did you say earlier? ‘protecting her’? but we should take it from here,” she shrugged apologetically, placing her opposite hand on her hips.

"That is NOT an option at this time," clipped Bruno, possessively closing the distance between him and his payload that the blonde now had in her literal hand. "The phone call I just received did not say the job was done. We did not get the stand down order. I mean no offense but we have been given the honor of this high profile job by our boss and we would be killed for disobeying or failing. Until _your_ boss officially tells _our_ boss to hand her over, she will continue to be under Passione’s protection.”

"Now who in OUR organization would be contacting _the Italian mob_?" asked Alucard. The question hangs in the air unanswered. "Look, ‘bob’, for now you can do whatever you dandies want, but we are now part of this endeavor. Just stay the fuck out of my way if Michaelis shows up."

"Wait. Was that you that called, asking for me on the phone?” Isadora asked Seras.

Seras’ eyes widened a bit, and shook her head slowly. “Someone tracked down your location and asked for you, on this rando apartment’s landline?”

Isadora nods.

Alucard runs his hand through his hair, exasperated, "DIMWITS, THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE? We need to get her out of here - now. Why the fuck didn't any of you ‘gangsters’ mention this before?"

"Master, we should move soon anyway while it's still night." said Seras.

Fugo cocks his head in confusion at the “master” comment but considering the last look Bucciarati gave him, thinks better than to ask.

**Author's Note:**

> Rules about this "Omnibus" AU:  
> 1\. Stands exist (JoJo).  
> 2\. Hellsing vampire rules exist (older vampires are less affected by daylight & holy weapons, regenerate faster, physically stronger/faster, can use a persuasive voice, have a mind/blood connection, including access to memories, with those with whom they have shared blood, etc.)  
> 3\. Dhampirs exist. Main difference – vampires need blood to survive but can eat what humans consume for pleasure & dhampirs are the opposite. Dhampirs can be susceptible to some vampire weaknesses – similar to an allergy. It depends on how powerful/old the parent vampire is.  
> 4\. If a vampire takes your blood, it acts similar to aphrodisiac and makes you feel relaxed.  
> 5\. If you drink vampire blood it still has the same aphrodisiac effects, but also acts as a stimulant.
> 
> Why did the OC from the works in this (eventual) omnibus become the horndog she is? Trauma. Trauma that she owned and twisted around into a manageable hypersexual disorder that is a hell of a lot more fun than many of the alternatives.  
> In the immortal words of Dan Savage: "...It's not an uncommon response: sometimes our subconscious mind takes the lemons of our sexual insecurities and turns them into delicious bonerade."


End file.
